


Courses

by openhearts



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2018-10-09 07:44:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10407237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openhearts/pseuds/openhearts
Summary: House Secret Santa fic exchange for (livejournal user) blueheronz.  It felt so good to be writing House fic again, especially this, since I got to focus on the good old days of Seasons 1 and 2.  Title comes from this quote, by Scrooge, in A Christmas Carol:  "Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead.  But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change."Originally posted at LiveJournal





	

"You're going to hurt me."  
   
What?   
   
He stares around the empty room.  
   
"It'll be heartbreaking," she sighs, as if she's the next-door neighbor to a murder victim, whispering behind the fences while the crime scene tape flutters.  
   
Where-?  
   
She turns around on the piano bench to face him.  She leans forward on her hands and raises her eyebrows.  Her expression is light, baiting.  
   
"You are," she repeats, and it lilts like a laugh.  She shakes her head and smiles invitingly at him.  The collar of a white button-down shirt drifts back against her shoulder as she leans forward, revealing collarbone.  
   
He squints deeply and brings her into focus.  Your hair.  
   
She stills for a moment and the smile slips off her mouth.  Her shoulder lifts under the starched cotton, and falls.   
   
"Better to remember than worry sometimes I guess.  Maybe, start over?"  
   
She slides her hands into the pockets of a lab coat and lounges against the wall next to him.  It's a small room and it feels crowded.  He notices too many details.  
   
("Dr. Allison Cameron."   
   
He watches his tongue lick at her first name, emphasize the first syllable of the last; and let the rest roll through his lips carelessly.  It tasted in his mouth, not like words.  Like deep sweet fleeting . . . cotton candy.  
   
"Do you always do interviews in the clinic?"  
   
A gray suit, three pieces like a mobster.  He was annoyed.  Terrified.  Annoyed at being terrified.  A slim brunette mobster in lip gloss, threatening, graceful.  She was, at first, a choice.  She became a series of increasing surrenders.  
   
"Do you always wear such tight pants?"  
   
Her mouth opens.  He continues, tossing a glance at the door opening behind her.  "If you can diagnose him in less than a minute you're hired.")  
   
She clicks a pen loudly, in and out, shaking her head at him.  "Right from the beginning."   
   
Her grin is crossed arms and cocked hip.  He glances back, eyes ticking from the top button of the vest to the flare of the dress pants around the heels.   
   
She sighs at his preoccupation and clicks again, shining the beam of light at the car window and leaning in curiously like a cop.  
   
They're still in the car, words pressing forward and back.  Love, need, pain, damaged.  
   
"Nervous?"  She grins slyly at him from the corner of her eye.  Her coat is short and her jeans are tight, sliding over her ass and into black high heeled boots.  
   
He looks to the couple in the car and shrugs.  Wasn't really my idea.  I was just along for the ride.  
   
"You were," she prods before turning her attention back to the couple in the car.  He glances around the dark street in front of her old apartment and tries not to hear so clearly.  
   
("Goodnight, House."  
   
"What, not gonna close the deal?  That's not part of your grand scheme here?"  
   
"I'm not that simple.  Neither are you."  
   
"Wait-"  He leans and grabs at her shoulder and kisses her unsure and not long enough.  Not like him.  
   
She's a flash of black dress, white rose.)  
   
"Do it again.  Right," she orders, standing in front of him, face tipped up into the pale streetlight.  The flashlight dangles from her fingers.   
   
Will it make any difference?  
   
She slides the flashlight into the pocket of his coat and puts her hands on her hips.  
   
"Still chickenshit," she declares, and it sounds too loud in the damp air.  It had rained that night and permeated everything; gray and slick.   
   
“Alright, come on then.”   
   
She begins backing away, beckoning him to follow her around the corner, away from himself sitting alone in the car.  He feels the urge to stay and follow her into the lighted windows she silhouettes above.  But he follows.  
   
"Here."  
   
He glances at his coat in her hand before taking it and sliding it on.  Their breath puffs out in grayscale against the clear morning.  She digs her hands into her pockets and watches the empty road in front of them.  He glances from side to side, collar of the wool chafing on his neck:  nothing.   
   
We're not waiting for a bus are we?  
   
"Hm?"  She shakes her head.  
   
Just making sure.  
   
A distant buzzing rumble appears in the air to their left - she grips his forearm with one gloved hand.  He watches her for a moment; she looks down the road, wide-eyed.  Excitement and dread thread together on her eyes and mouth.  The rumble grows, her hand tightens, and he turns to watch as well.  
   
His internal monologue whizzes by, growing clearer as they near, then fading with them into the distance:  Ride.  I drive.  Wrap- it's cold out.  You wear the helmet.  Thrill.  Do you know I'm giving this to you?  This is not flirting it's . . . it's running.  Rushing on rubber legs; pounding, the engine underneath; stretch, your arms around while I steer.  
   
When the motorcycle passes she lets out a breath and pivots to watch it disappear.  He's left blinking, hands limp in his pockets.  Her grip loosens until they stand arm in arm at the empty line of road before them.  
   
She turns to him and leans up on tip toe, whispers through a smile into his ear about the stretch of his hips between her thighs.  
   
What?  
   
"Why . . . together?  . . . ever . . . could-"  
   
Engines roar, exhaust clouding their heads enough on its own to impair hearing.  It's dark and warmer.  They get jostled closer together by the crowd.  Popcorn and cotton candy traded around; beer and cigarettes slosh dangerously close to leather or denim jackets.  
   
We're going out of order.  
   
"We're following a theme!" she's grinning like mad, eyes sparking bright and alive.  It seems strange, so alive.  Not that-  
   
"Come on," she grabs his hand and holds it up above her head as she fairly dances herself through the crowd.  She tugs when they break free into the walk way in front of the food carts and carnival games.  "Come on, we'll miss it."  
   
No, we can't-  
   
"Come on."  
   
I remember okay?  We don't have to do this.  
   
He can't make his feet stop.  Halfway into the parking lot she stops and still curls her fingers around his.  "Don't you want to-?"  
   
No.   
   
He shoves his other hand in his pocket and glares at the ground.   
   
Even with his eyes averted his body relives it as her arms twine around his neck and her leather sticks against his.  She kisses him, the first time and the real time.  It's hers first, but he takes it back soon enough; his lower lip curls around hers - they're stubble and cotton candy.  Prickling, scraping, fleeting, gone.  Just a taste on the tongue and a rash on the neck.  
   
Wake up, he orders himself, but her fingers threaded through his won't give up and he's held there.  He glances up at the couple spread over the hood of the car, she with a leg hitched up at his hips, his hat knocked to the ground and her fingers in his hair.  
   
They stand and break after a moment and are still, talking but muted.  He stares at the same patch of ground and she slaps him weakly.  It's beer-fueled, final.  
   
She turns back to him slick curls sliding over her shoulders.  She's looking at the ground now too.  "Maybe you were right."  
   
She leans against his side, her head on his shoulder.  The lab is silent except for the clicking of glass against metal.  They stand sandwiched between her at the table with the centrifuge and him watching on the other side of the glass wall.  
   
The door opens.   
   
He rests a hand on her back.  If not then, at least now.  
   
"You pick one."  
   
I can't-  
   
"You pick."  
   
He's not as detached, he realizes.  Focused on small things, brief things.  They're in his head, watching her with her hands braced on her knees, eyes closed, straining.   
   
Listen.  Listen.  Listen to the muscle.  The rhythm is there.  But only you-  
   
She cocks her head and taps a finger through the air in pace with the beat, catching the irregular ‘glug.’  
   
That’s my girl.  
   
The deep, present thump lobs his blood into her hands.   
   
They hear his mind gasping above the gurgles from his throat:  Whisper to her what you need.  Give her the message, the secret, the dream.  She is the one to trust, the one to bait with your sweat and requests.  Her hand clutching your throat, squeezing the blood out?  Hair, chocolate.  Blood.  Give me- Fix me.  I'll give this to her.  This anchor to drown with.  She'll make a spectacular rope.  
   
Synapses going haywire, he shrugs.  She shakes her head, turns to him, struck.  She flexes her fingers through his again.   
   
"I didn't know it was on purpose . . . I-”  
   
Only you.  He stares ahead, at her shaking with his blood on her hands, apart from the fray around him.   
   
It’s not the sort of thing he would have said loud then.  It’s not the sort of thing he would say to her, real her, present her, now.  But then he doesn’t say anything to her now.  He doesn’t say anything.  His fingertips gather on the back of her hand.  
   
“Let me show you one," she whispers.  
   
She waits for his reaction.  
   
You stayed.   
   
He motions to her, smiling in a doorway.  She nods and fidgets next to him, shifting her feet.  
   
He watches the elevator doors squish Sebastian into oblivion and smirks a little in spite of himself.  She looks the other way at the blushing smile, the sunlight.   
   
"I always did."  She looks back to him, tells him a thousand more things.  
   
Until you didn't.  
   
She doesn't hear him over the music.  
   
"We never did this," she says softly as his hand slides around her waist.  Saxophone trickles over the dance floor and swirls around the skirts and coats of the few couples swaying gently.  She looks up at him and he smiles.  
   
She feels good, real.  Her stomach pressed against his, the weight of her hand resting on his shoulder.  The dress isn't the same - this one's pale gold, oozing over her hips like water.  His shoes are uncomfortable, like something that came with the tux.  Sneakers would be good, he thinks, but then they won’t be here long.  
   
He glances at his watch.  They're upstairs working on the case right now.  Right then.  Her mouth brushes his jaw.  
   
"It was just about what was easier," she says softly over his skin.  
   
Crappy joke for a cripple.  
   
She stands at the top of the stairs, half-turned and looking down.  "That's not what I mean," she clarifies, turning back to him standing next to her.  Him, standing there weighing options with a fist in the air.  
   
He takes the first step and glances at a framed snapshot on the wall above the banister clutched in his hand.  He pauses and stares.  She sits at the desk in the corner answering letters and emails.  
   
"It was easier to just sign your name for you," she explains from the top of the stairs.  She's peering at him next to her, fascinated.  The sleeves of her sweater bank over her knuckles.  
   
He mounts another step.  On the wall they share a look, hands fused over a cup of coffee.  That red cup.  He looks surprised.  
   
"Easier to have it ready so you didn't have to ask."  
   
Another and it feels like the muscles in his thigh are tearing away fiber by fiber.  She hunches over the table, frowning through her glasses at a chart.  She holds a few pages flipped up and the lamp in the corner casts a shadow.  
   
"You just wanted to work on the puzzles.  It was-"  
   
Easier? he grinds out.  It's a shout in the quiet.   
   
You were never the easy way.  
   
He reaches her, panting, his palm burning from the banister.  He plants his feet on the floor and the landing is too crowded.  Slight beads of sweat gather under his collar and the cotton sucks them in promptly.  
   
Why couldn't this little fantasy come with a new leg?  
   
"It's not a fantasy.  This is how it all happens.  You remember this, you're just seeing it-"  
   
Well what if I don't need to see it again?  We know how this turns out, you don't need to-  
   
"We don't know," she says, focus entirely on him; she ignores the man at the door.  She searches him, suddenly curious.  He sees the white board roll up behind her eyes.  "We never know until-"  
   
The door opens.  They missed the knock.  The three of them stare at her through the slivered-open door for a moment.   
   
"You didn't-" she whirls around and turns his face to see the side of his neck.  Bald panic covers over her eyes for a few seconds, then fades.  Her fingers run over the scar.  He takes her hand away, shakes his head.  
   
She looks at his hand around hers, follows his arm up to shoulder up to face.  She eyes his details carefully.  Older.  Wizened.  Tired.   
   
He eyes her back as they banter briefly in the background.  Clearer.  Softer.  Brunette.  It's the distinguishing feature that had bugged him from the beginning.  
   
"You're not . . ." she glances over her shoulder, one hand with a finger pointing in midair like the mast of a blown sail boat toward him.  
   
(". . . keep me in my place.  Because I want you to come back.")  
   
She makes the date - the first one, not the real one - into a demand that's about work.  It's easier.  
   
Cameron.  
   
He tries to continue.  At the door his mouth hangs useless for a moment too.  
   
She's limp, vacant as her mind peels back layers of discovery.  She only gets so far.  He steps into her space and slides his arms around her and wonders if she feels the sudden rush of fear.  The nubby yarns of her sweater warm his palms.  
   
His breath is too short, her smile slinking and self-impressed.   
   
Her hands appear on his shoulders but he lets go, shifting back slowly.  She stares at him, eyes drifting down, catching on the scar again.  
   
“What happens?”  
   
I'm going to hurt you, he says roughly.  
   
The door closes and they turn, startled, as she hands the prescription pad back to him.  He squints at her and nods.  "Forty-eight seconds.  Cool.  Can you start now?"  
   
"I guess, I-"  
   
"Good.  Finish my clinic hours.  See you on Monday."  
   
They turn to face each other.  Her arms are folded carefully in front of her and his hands flex meaninglessly at his sides.  
   
I would have hired you anyway.  
   
"I know."  
   
You were always-  
   
"I know."  
   
_  



End file.
